


we’re okay

by thebluehaze



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), The Force, but. if you will. with a twist, i just think they’re neat, perhaps a gratuitous use of nicknames, the helmet tilt (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28957566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluehaze/pseuds/thebluehaze
Summary: The child raises a hand toward him, eyes still eerily vacant. So. They want to have his blood on the child’s hands. It hurts to imagine what that kind of burden would do to the little one, but he also knows he won’t fight back. He can’t. He kneels before the child, keeps his T-visor locked onto his face and lifts his chin into a nod. He hopes they can get out of this, absolutely, but in case they don’t, he’s got to leave Grogu with some sort of absolution.—Or, a mind control fic where Grogu’s powers are used against our favorite clan of two, but Din refuses to fight back becausethat’s his kid.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 44
Kudos: 221





	we’re okay

**Author's Note:**

> my life is extended by three years every time din canonically calls grogu buddy or pal. the,,,love
> 
> mando’a translations provided in the end notes, if you need them!

The Razor Crest soars forward, winks out of sight, and continues its journey in hyperdrive. Its inhabitants are, for once, not together. A lone Mandalorian sits in the pilot’s chair of the cockpit, both hands occupied by the dual controls. Down below, in the cargo hold, there’s a small green creature with big eyes and even bigger, floppy ears, and it’s. Quiet. 

Entirely too quiet, actually, Din thinks to himself. 

Certainly, there was a time when silence was the norm and, in fact, protected at all costs. 

But throw in an unknown species of child and suddenly Din finds himself talking out loud just to include the kid in the moment. He’s traded the staticky subspace comm for the pitter patter of bare feet slapping against the ground as the child goes in search of his next mischief. The sound of Din’s breathing echoed out through the modulator of his helmet is covered up by the giggles and coos of the kid as he plays with whatever toy catches his fancy that week. It’s—a welcome change, Din will acknowledge that, but don’t ask him to repeat himself here.

So now, with an alarmingly resounding silence permeating throughout the ship’s walls, Din turns on autopilot so he can do some investigating into the kid’s whereabouts.

He spins his chair around, stands to his feet, and takes the couple steps over to the ladder leading down to the cargo hold. He climbs down one rung, two, then jumps down to land with a clang on solid ground. Looking first to his right, he sees nothing but the refresher and the weapons locker, both devoid of any green goblins.

When he turns his helmet to the left, he’s shocked into letting out a huff of laughter. “What’ve you got there?”

The child makes an inquisitive sound as he glances up. He grins toothily at the Mandalorian and lifts up both hands, scrunching and unscrunching his fingers. The permanent marker that had been in his three-clawed grasp moments before sits forgotten in his lap.

Din sighs, soft smile still in place, and marches over to scoop the child into his arms. He glances at the walls to make sure, but no, they’re as bare as they’ve always been. He looks back at Grogu and snorts to himself.

Because the child is absolutely covered in doodles and scribbles made by a clumsy but overenthusiastic hand. He’s pushed the oversized tunic up to expose his arms and legs, and even his face and ears have a few stray marks here and there. His hands are tattooed with spirals and wavy lines, suns with spikes for rays, T-shaped patterns—for some reason. Din’s uncertain about that one—anything a child’s shaky skills can produce, Din’s sure it’s probably found its way onto the little foundling. And his arms and legs hadn’t fared much better, the scribbles marginally worse on his right hand and arm when he’d been forced to draw with his opposite hand. 

Din is no stranger to children. It would be impossible after growing up in the covert and then helping to support them as he got older. Within the covert, the “it takes a village” mentality runs rampant. So he’s certainly seen the emotion behind what’s happening here before, lots of times, with the little children rebelliously drawing over walls and armor and whatever else they can get their hands on, and Din knows all too well the mischievousness that was hibernating within Grogu as he fought to survive, escaping only once he felt safe enough to be himself, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to see the child mirroring their actions.

But Din has never seen the drawing-on-anything-but-paper instinct be so utterly self-sabotaging.

He tilts his visor down to level his gaze at the child. “Having fun, buddy?”

Grogu excitedly coos a stream of nonsense, waving his hands about wildly in the air to punctuate what he’s saying.

Din nods, to humor him. “That’s good,” he says, “because do I have news for you.” He straightens out the child’s tunic, then bends all but the pointer finger on his other hand down so that the little claws attempting to hold it can latch on more firmly. “It’s customary to doodle on the walls, you know.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah. Because then it’s the adult’s property that’s been vandalized and it’s got just the mischievous vibe I think you were going for, huh?”

The child nods slowly, like he’s still trying to process the words in order to make out even a shred of meaning from the speech.

Din gives him a second, smooths a hand over the fuzzy brow that’s become furrowed in thought. “What I mean to say is, I understand what you were going for, but, kid,” he chuckles fondly, “the only one at a loss here is you.”

The child’s expression starts to clear. He’s getting there, Din can see it.

“I like your tattoos. Do you know how permanent a permanent marker is?” Din teases gently, “I think you might’ve just found yourself a new look.”

And there. There it is. Grogu squawks indignantly and shakes his head, frantic.

Din smiles to himself, knowing it’s all in good fun. He had decided to stop off somewhere for soap and water three minutes ago when he first turned his helmet and caught a glimpse of the ink-covered mess before him. But there’s no harm in making the little one squirm for a minute, as long as there’s no real danger, and there isn’t. So Din shrugs his shoulders sadly. “I’m afraid there isn’t anything on the ship to clean you up with, though. What is one to do?”

The child glares for all he’s worth, even tilts his head down in an adorable attempt to be menacing, and Din recognizes the movement as something he does when he’s frustrated or angry at a bounty.

Din finally relents, strangely touched that the child thinks highly enough of him to share his mannerisms. “Alright, alright. We can stop off somewhere. We’ll be coming up on a planet soon anyway.”

Grogu squeals, delighted, and squeezes the pointer finger he still has in his grasp.

“Yeah. You’re welcome, kid.” The fondness that creeps into his words burrows into his self-consciousness and makes him itch. For good measure, he says gruffly, “Can’t have you grumpy on my watch, can I?”

—

The child continued to be a bit of a grump. Before they could disembark from the starship, Din had to find the little womp rat. He turned his back for one second to plot a course to Naboo, and Grogu had vanished. No, he didn’t lose him, but damn if the child isn’t good at hiding when he wants to. He had checked the refresher, thinking maybe Grogu was trying to clean himself up with what little they had aboard the ship. When that was fruitless, he poked around at the various nooks and crannies of the cargo hold, carefully checking behind and under supplies for any signs of a baby claw or the tips of floppy green ears to give away the child’s position.

In the end, he had heard a shuffle coming from the weapons locker, of all things. He raced over and fumbled the door open, chastising gently, “ _Ad’ika_ , you know you’re not supposed to be in here,” as he did so. Two ears and a fuzzy forehead cautiously rose up from where the child had been hiding behind a case containing ammo. His voice had come out a bit rough through the modulator of his helmet, and he guiltily rushed to clarify, “I’m not—I’m not mad, buddy, just worried. I know they sound the same sometimes. But you could get hurt in there. That’s why it’s off-limits.”

Grogu had shuffled out fully from his hiding place and trilled an apology. 

Din had sighed. “I know. You probably only chose this room because you knew I wouldn’t come looking for you in here, huh? Smart.”

He suspected that the child’s impromptu game of hide-and-seek had something to do with the fact that the child was a little self-conscious about the doodles staining his skin, wary about braving a world full of other people who could see him in such a state. 

But now that’s behind them. The child is safely cradled in Din’s arms. They’ve gone into the town and found some soap and water that the sonic shower on the ship couldn’t provide. And Grogu is once again presentable. He even has the addition of a vibrantly colored, three-dimensional knitted frog within his three-fingered grasp because the Mandalorian is, apparently, a sap and had caved under the bright-eyed adoration on Grogu’s face as they passed by the artist’s booth. The child babbles to himself with pride.

Din feels affection bloom in his chest as he continues on his path back to the Razor Crest. _This kid._

He hears a rock scrape against the concrete pathway of the market, sees the movement of a figure ducking into an alleyway out of the corner of his eye, and is instantly on alert. He shifts his helmet minutely to scan the crowd on either side of him and—yes, there. Two humanoid creatures off to the left, gaze directed at the precious cargo he has bundled in his arms. From the shadow of the one that ducked into the alleyway, it’s a Twi-lek, and she’s got her hand pressed against her ear. Comm system, Din thinks to himself. There are three more humanoid creatures in a group ahead, forming a sort of huddle to the side of the flow of traffic, and they take turns looking back toward him.

Din curses to himself. At least six-on-one. He’s managed it before and he’ll do it again, but it’s not fun and it’s made harder by the fact that he has a child occupying one hand. 

He fights against the impulse to draw his blaster. He can’t yet. Not with the child in the range of enemy shots. Din allows his free hand to drift closer to his hip where he keeps the holster, but he trudges carefully forward like nothing is wrong, in the direction of a booth where he can inconspicuously set the child down while he’s “browsing” at the selection.

Before he can get there, though, he feels the child shudder in his arms, just once, but it’s a full-body flinch and he goes completely still after. His face is frighteningly blank, and the eyes that are usually so bright with expression have dimmed. He seems to stare straight through Din.

”Grogu?” Din’s voice is pitched an octave too high in his worry, and he jostles the child a little to try to get his attention. “What’s up, buddy?”

The child raises one little hand, eyes squinted and forehead wrinkled with concentration, and Din recognizes the motion from the few times the child has used his powers before. He hates to discourage the child from drawing upon such a fundamental part of who he is because it feels an awful lot like rejecting the child himself. But they’re in a crowd of people, it’s not safe at all. He quickly wraps his hand around it in a gentle hold. “Woah, woah, let’s not. Not here, okay?” he mutters softly.

The child remains silent, which only adds further fuel to the ice-cold flames of dread curling through Din’s veins. He’s always vocal about his feelings, at least now that he’s grown more comfortable around Din. He grumbles when he’s told no, just to keep Din on his toes, he coos when he’s happy and he trills out his excitement. This is not the child he knows. 

That thought is confirmed immediately after it’s conceived when Grogu flicks his wrist and suddenly the arm that Din is cradling the child in lets go of its own volition. The child slips to the floor and—god, he’s headed in the direction of the three humanoid creatures. Is he turning himself in? The child even carelessly drops the knitted frog as he waddles drunkenly forward.

Din takes a step, intent on pursuing the child, but without even turning around, the child lifts a hand over his shoulder and suddenly Din is flying into the nearest wall. His head and back make impact first, slamming into the structure so hard that he leaves a dent. Winded, he staggers slowly to his feet.

He looks about frantically for the six enemies he had identified earlier, to see if he can figure out what the _hell_ is going on here because there’s no rational explanation he can conjure up to explain why his womp rat would do something like that. The only answer on repeat in his mind is that it’s impossible, it simply can’t be Grogu. He’s not in his right mind or—or something because Grogu is everything good in this world. He’s pure and he’s kind and he gives Din trouble but only in a teasing way, and never when the situation is serious. 

In his search, Din locates the Twi-lek pressing something by her ear again, but then the rest of her comes into his view and he sees that she’s actually got both hands at either side of her temple and her eyes are closed in concentration. Not a comm system then. What—? He spots one of the humanoid creatures, green with black markings on his face, and he’s staring straight at the child and muttering under his breath. Another humanoid has one hand outstretched like Grogu’s had been, and Din stumbles where he stands. He only just manages to steady himself with an arm braced against the wall as the realization washes over him. 

He’s heard stories of the Imperial Inquisitors, a force-sensitive group of agents who were loyal to the dark side. They were capable of burrowing into someone’s mind to gain control of their thoughts and actions, and the mind trick is even stronger when they work together. According to the tales, they were set on hunting down the remaining Jedi.

As much as it sickens him to acknowledge it, he thinks that must be what’s happening here. They’ve got a hold of Grogu’s mind and are luring him toward them because they sensed his own abilities to manipulate the force.

Okay. He needs a plan. Fast. Now it’s seven-to-one, and he’s further impaired by the fact that he’s got to be careful he doesn’t hurt one of them.

Surveilling the scene, he sees that the child is still waddling toward the enemy. Din recognizes the strategy here—they can’t snatch him up without causing a scene, so they’re making him come to them. But it means he still has a fighting chance to get them out of this, so he’ll take whatever luck he can get. 

He knows from experience that using the force is exhausting for the child, and he hopes that holds true for all who yield it. That would mean he could get the jump on the Inquisitors while they’re focusing all their efforts on controlling Grogu. 

He locks three Whistling Birds onto their respective targets and draws his blaster in the same fluid motion. In the next second, he’s executing, launching the missiles and pulling the trigger of his gun. He drops to a knee and bows his head to avoid any return fire while he waits for each to make their mark. It takes only a second more, then he hears the loud thud as four bodies collapse as one.

Chaos ensues. Any subtlety the Inquisitors were hoping to have is shattered as the crowded market dissolves into terrified screams and stampeding footsteps. 

Not the best plan, maybe, but he’s working on instinct, clouded by concern for the child. It got the job done, even if it did involve civilians a little too much for Din’s liking.

And it’s selfish, but he can’t really spare much thought to the safety of the native Gungans and Naboo. All Din can think about is the fact that the child is so small, and he could easily be trampled by the fleeing crowd. He’s got to protect his foundling and eliminate the enemy. That’ll neutralize the threat to the local community anyway.

He runs to the spot where he last saw the child, head spinning, but he’s not there and the crowd is still so thick and muddled. He spins where he stands, helmet turning back and forth as his gaze sweeps across the scene. He turns back, and suddenly, there’s a clearing.

He can see the child directly ahead, and his heart very nearly gives out—the child is clutched in the arms of one of the humanoid creatures, knife held to his neck. 

The creature tilts her head at the way he freezes, then she smirks. “You care for the child. I had hoped we could get him and run without anyone the wiser, but this will be fun too.”

He closes the distance between them, holds a hand up in surrender. “Alright, let’s not be hasty. If you hurt him, there is nowhere you can hide from me.” 

The creature laughs mercilessly. “Oh, no. We don’t want to hurt him. He’s too precious to us. We want to _break_ him.”

“Wait a second. Wait—“ Din chokes out a breath, sucks in another, his voice shrill when he asks, “What does that mean?” 

She doesn’t reply, just hums as she places the child on the ground and clears off a ways to join back up with the last member of their gang. 

The child raises a hand toward him, eyes still eerily vacant. So. They want to have his blood on the child’s hands. It hurts to imagine what that kind of burden would do to the little one, but he also knows he won’t fight back. He can’t. He kneels before the child, keeps his T-visor locked onto his face and lifts his chin into a nod. He hopes they can get out of this, absolutely, but in case they don’t, he’s got to leave Grogu with some sort of absolution.

The child flicks his ear curiously at the surrender, the most emotion he’s shown since they bombarded his mind, and a flicker of hope rises inside Din. But just as soon as it comes, it’s crushed when the child flicks his wrist and an invisible force slams into his chest, knocking him on his back. A beautiful handmade knife from one of the market stalls soars straight for him. He just manages to roll over, and it grazes his arm instead of his stomach.

He groans, and pushes himself to his feet. “Grogu, hey, it’s me. I know you’re in ther-“

Din cuts off with a grunt as he’s slammed into a table, landing in the splintered shards of what’s left of it. 

He lifts his neck up from the ground, catches a glimpse of the enemy Inquisitors off to the right, and lets his head fall back. If he can just take care of them, he’s sure Grogu will come back to him. He’s strong, resilient, he’ll be fine. Din will make sure of it. 

Under the cover of taking such a tumble—they won’t be expecting him to get back up for a second, surely—he inches his hand toward his vambrace where he can at least program the last Whistling Bird to one Inquisitor. They’re stronger in groups, anyway, so maybe he can free Grogu enough that he can fight back against the mind trick.

He hits confirm and listens to the hiss as it is released into the world.

An enraged shriek from the last enemy standing pierces the night and suddenly Din is tugged painfully upright. A vice grip locks around his throat and squeezes, and when he glances over at the child, he can see that his hand is shut tight into a fist.

Din struggles in vain, jerking involuntarily to try to escape the clutches, and his hands scrabble at his neck. He gets a hold of the cowl around his neck and tries to tug at that, like it’ll do anything to let in some air.

His actions grow weaker, clumsier, and with his last bit of strength, he gets an idea borne of desperation. He shoves a hand into his pocket and comes back with a little ball of metal. His motor skills have been compromised; the ball slips from his grasp to roll to a stop in front of the child.

The pressure lets up at the same time that there is an anguished cry. Din drops to his knees, braces his forearms on his thigh guards and heaves. He sucks in breaths so greedily he ends up choking on them. He gives himself three seconds of his eyes closed against the world while he just focuses on nothing but the next breath, before he opens his eyes to check on the child. He’s still nearly hyperventilating, and there’s no way he can stand, but he needs confirmation that the child is okay. 

Grogu has the little ball in both hands, and he’s bowed over it. Off to the side, he can make out two lumps on the ground, one no doubt killed by the missile he’d aimed their way, the other slumped against a wall, like an invisible force had reached out in its agony in a last ditch effort to stop the connection between their minds. 

_Oh, ad’ika._

Satisfied that the kid is physically safe at least, Din shifts so that he’s sitting rather than kneeling and slumps forward, spent. He presses one hand lightly against his ribs where he can feel a deep ache setting in—getting tossed around will leave a bruised rib or two, he’s found—and his other hand reaches out toward Grogu. He clears his throat, sighs. “You okay?” he asks, just to make sure. 

As Din’s arm approaches, though, the child lets out a shrill screech, sounding for all the world like an alarm going off. 

“Woah, woah, hey. What is it, buddy?” Din scrambles back to his knees, ignores the involuntary wince when the movement pulls at his bruised ribs, and scoots closer to the child. “Are you hurt?”

“Eh!” Grogu flinches back even more, dropping the metal ball as he scrambles away. 

Din snatches his arm back quickly. For a moment, he’s stunned into silence at the child’s behavior. Usually when he’s upset, the child would seek out the comfort of the Mandalorian, and it worries Din to see him so intent on actively discouraging such affection from him. But then—

“ _Haar’chak_ ,” Din mutters to himself, quietly enough that the modulator of the helmet doesn’t even pick it up. “I’m—sorry.” He falters, head bowed, and he speaks loud enough now that he’s sure the child can pick up on the waver in his voice. “I told you I would protect you and look what happened. I can see—“ Din blows out a breath harshly in a humorless imitation of a laugh, and when next he speaks, his voice sounds wrecked, “I understand why you would be scared of me. I should’ve done better. Been faster.” 

Din glances up in time to see the child shaking his head to himself, gaze aimed resolutely at the little hands he’s carefully folded in his lap, though Din can still see them shaking. He softens his voice, apology and promise enfolded in the concern that laces every word, “Ad’ika, look at me?”

But it’s too much. Kindness has a way of chipping at resolve and busting down walls far easier than a harsh word ever could, especially in the state of guilt that the child finds himself in. He looks at Din’s hand still pressed into his side to brace his ribs, he looks at the disheveled cowl around Din’s neck that speaks to his frantic attempt at stopping the invisible force choking him, he looks at the blood still freely dripping down Din’s right arm, he looks and looks and looks at all the evidence of his failure and knows that he isn’t worthy of what’s happening here. Of Din sitting in front of him trying to apologize to _him_ for the sins that are Grogu’s to begin with. 

With a choked cry, Grogu stumbles at the fastest run he can manage in the direction of the Razor Crest. 

Din curses to himself again, pushes to his feet and sways where he stands. He leans out a hand to steady himself, but comes up short and teeters unsteadily back a step. 

For as tiny as the child’s legs are, he’s got a good head start and the advantage of a ( _vor entye_ ) unharmed body to propel him forward, so he beats Din to the Crest.

When Din gets back to the ship, having been slowed down by his wheezing attempts at a run and his stop to collect Grogu’s metal ball and the new knitted frog—he’s still a sap—he finds no trace of the child, but the hatch to their sleeping chamber is shut tight. He knocks lightly. “I’m going to open the door now, okay?” 

He taps the button to the left of the chamber. Before it has even lifted an inch, though, there’s a horrified coo from inside and an invisible force snaps it shut again. 

Din huffs, gently smacking his helmet against the closed door of the hatch. “I hear you. Just—don’t tire yourself out,” he tacks on gruffly. 

His chest plate clanks against the thigh guards as he positions himself on the floor with a groan, back against the solid wall of the Razor Crest and tilted head leaning against the door to the hatch.

Once it’s clear that he’s settled in for the long haul, Din could swear he hears a little forlorn sigh from the other side, so close it sounds suspiciously like the child has pressed his back to the closed door of the hatch too, so that their heads are tipped back-to-back at the same level, separated only by the steel door.

“Listen, I _promise_ you’re safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you. You trust me?”

Din hears an immediate response from the child in the form of an affirmative grunt, but the hatch remains firmly shut. He continues, “Then can’t we talk it out?”

This time, the answered coo sounds incredulous.

“You know what I mean.”

In the wake of the silence that follows, Din waits, breath held and hands, usually kept so still, tapping out a fretful pattern on his leg.

He hears the groan of metal grinding against metal as the door finally creeps open. He whips his helmet around, T-visor locked straight ahead where he predicted the child would be, and shifts so that he’s kneeling before the hatch.

But the child is no longer there. He’s shoved himself into the farthest corner of the hatch, ears pressed back against his head to make himself as small as possible, hands still trembling where they’re clutched desperately together in front of him.

Din takes in the scene quickly, opens his mouth to—to what? Comfort? Ask what’s going on? How does he _fix_ this?—but then the pieces click together. Here he had been blaming himself for letting Grogu’s mind be taken over in the first place, appalled that he couldn’t keep the child safe and that the child had to go through something so traumatizing because of his inadequacy. And yet somehow the child had been thinking the exact opposite, drowning in guilt of his own. He sees the flinches, the tremors, the frantic attempts to make himself as small and non-threatening as possible and to place physical barriers between him and Din, for what they are now and he’s the one to flinch this time.

“Oh, little one. I’m okay.” Din’s voice breaks, and he reaches out one hand slowly, palm up in surrender. He’ll leave it up to the kid whether or not he’s ready to accept. “That wasn’t—I know that wasn’t you.”

Grogu glances longingly at the outstretched hand, looks at his own and hesitantly bumbles forward a step with claws reaching out to reciprocate. He stops, flicks his gaze up to Din’s helmet, question written into every line of his face, and Din knows that he’s looking for signs of any lingering fear or hatred because Din’s done this shuffling dance of hesitance himself before. 

“It’s alright.” He wiggles his fingers invitingly, but makes a concentrated effort to neither bring his hand forward nor retract it the slightest millimeter, fearing the message that either would send to the child right now. 

Whatever the child was looking for, he must find it. The next thing Din knows there’s a happy coo (finally, _finally_ ) reverberating through the ship’s walls again and the child totters toward him. Knowing he’s got the kid’s permission now, Din catches him with both hands as he stumbles over and lifts him into the crook of his uninjured arm as he stands to his feet. 

The child leans toward his right arm so intently that he nearly topples out of the Mandalorian’s hold. Din steadies him carefully, wincing when it causes him to move the arm with the knife wound over. 

The child lowers its ears and takes gentle hold of Din’s right hand where it still presses against the child’s chest to secure him more firmly in Din’s embrace. He tilts his head up to gaze at Din, giant ears flopping back too. “Bah?” he asks, raising a hand toward the blood. 

”Woah, woah, take it easy—“ Din’s not sure how much using his powers would have depleted the child’s energy since it wasn’t really the child’s intent to do any of it, but he can’t be too careful and there’s nothing dire that needs tending to anyway. 

The hand withdraws like it’s been slapped and Din curses inwardly. 

“Oh, no, buddy. No, no. I didn’t mean—“ Din huffs, frustrated with himself. “I trust you. It’s just, you don’t have to do that.” 

The child relaxes, letting his hand fall from where it had been tensely held in the air in anticipation of further rebuke. He leans his cheek into Din’s arm for a moment and pats the hand he’s cradled in. Then he resumes his efforts to heal Din, and Din sighs but doesn’t try to stop him again. He just places a bracing hand against the child’s back in case he tires himself out, but apart from a couple slow blinks, he seems to be okay. 

Din rubs the child’s back gently. “Thank you, ad’ika.”

“Patu!”

The helmet hides his smile, but it doesn’t hide the way he tilts his head and scrunches his shoulders upward, overcome with the affection warming his chest. 

”Come with me,” Din says, a bit unnecessarily since the child is in his arms still, but he’s become used to talking through his actions with the little one. “I have something for you.” 

The child’s ears perk up. “Eh?” he mumbles out as Din exits the ship. 

Din had landed near Lake Country, a beautiful open grassland filled with wildflowers and backed by a waterfall on one side. He leads them to a soft patch of grass overlooking the waterfall and squats to set the child down before taking a seat himself.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rescued frog, and the child squeals and claps his hands together. Din smiles to himself, places the toy in Grogu’s waiting arms.

“Grogu—“ he sighs, doesn’t want to dredge up painful memories but _needs_ to make the child understand something, “how much can you remember through the haze of the mind trick?”

The child looks up briefly from the frog and lets out a forlorn coo. 

”All of it, huh? That’s what I was afraid of.” The child might have started to imitate Din’s behavior, but there’s no universe in which he would ever want the child to mirror the way Din surrendered. He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth to speak, but ends up stopping and exhaling it back out. He tries again. “If—“ heaven forbid, “our roles were reversed, you know to protect yourself, no matter what, right?”

The child flicks an ear and trills indignantly at Din. 

”I know I didn’t, buddy, but that’s different. You—“ Din sighs again. “You are my _only_ priority, understand?” 

Grogu nods slowly, ears lowered. 

Din blows out a breath. “Good. That’s good,” he says, almost to himself.

But he can’t stand the sight of the kid’s droopy ears. He retrieves the silver ball from his other pocket and deposits it in the child’s lap gently. 

The child looks at the ball then tilts his head back to grin toothily at Din. He uses his right hand to bring the ball up to his mouth to begin gnawing on it, and his left hand squeezes the knitted frog.

Sitting with his legs crossed, Din places his hands on the ground behind him and leans back, content to just watch for a few minutes as the child’s ears slowly perk back up with growing contentment. 

The child drops the frog and begins shuffling his hands through the soft grass. He plucks a few blades from the ground and rains them down into his lap. He stops gnawing on the metal ball to giggle, then he plucks out another fistful of grass and places it on Din’s knee, babbling excitedly all the while. 

”Oh!” Din manages, surprised and a little choked up. “Thank you.”

Din moves the blades of grass around gently with a gloved finger. ”We’re okay, right?” Din asks, turning his helmet to look at Grogu.

The child stands and clambers into his lap enthusiastically, being careful to avoid the pile of grass resting on Din’s knee. The wave of fondness that washes over Din almost hurts. How could this child of complete innocence and kindness ever think himself capable of hurting anyone on purpose? 

Once the child’s standing in his lap, there’s a gentle tug on his helmet, an invisible force nudging it down so that Grogu can plant his little hands on either side of it and bring his forehead to rest against the top of the visor in a _kov’nyn_.

They have all the time in the world to work on their wildly incorrect images of their worth, but for now, Din thinks, he must be doing something right if he can earn the love of the child before him, and he’ll do everything he can to make sure Grogu knows he’s family, his ad’ika, in return. He smiles beneath the helmet and leans into the Keldabe kiss. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> grogu in the beginning of this fic radiates “he a little confused, but he got the spirit” energy. he’s just a lil marshmallow. :’)
> 
> and the mando’a translations, as promised: 
> 
> _ad’ika_ \- little one, son  
>  _haar’chak_ \- damn it  
>  _vor entye_ \- thank you (in this context, closer to thankfully), literally “i accept a debt”  
>  _kov’nyn_ \- head-butt (the warriors of mandalore might not acknowledge it but...it’s a forehead kiss)


End file.
